


a guide to idioms of love: "falling in love" definitions

by sighless



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Autistic Character, Blind Character, Body Horror, Cecil is Mostly Human, Deaf Character, Disabled Character, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Nonbinary Character, Other, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighless/pseuds/sighless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A team of scientists meets a small desert town, and they fall in love instantly. (Fluff in later chapters. Excuse to write lots of disabled characters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a tactile approach to despair

**Author's Note:**

> I know I rarely finish fics but I love writing disabled characters. 
> 
> Definition: "sim-com" is short for "simultaneous communication" and means to speak and use a signed language at the same time.

_"And I fell in love instantly."_

The scientist paused, turning away from their work to flap their hands gently, carefully, so as not to wake any of the specimen.

They tried not to see these people as specimen, too, but that was difficult right off the bat. 

Carlos never had much trouble with idioms, though that one brought them back to the dusty blond, animalistic wings and claws that took the place of hands and arms of an individual wearing a badge reading "Certified Deaf Interpreter." 

Carlos offered to sim-com, but the person did not seem to understand them, and they did not understand the interpreter. Some parts of the two languages matched, but Carlos doubted they could manage the same expressions and screeching noises that the CDI gave off intermittently. 

Something bubbled, bringing Carlos back to the present, to a foggy, almost dissociative hyper-focus for a few hours. It got the long-haired academic nowhere in this research, but they enjoyed it, which is really more than they could say  
about any other experience here. 

"Carlos?" a heavy, gloved hand collapsed onto their shoulder, and they flinched, taking an extra few seconds to process those two syllables.

They glanced over to their colleague, whose fist was already circling her chest in apology. Her hands moved beneath his. Sophia's Master's may have been in biochemistry, but her mastery was more related to picking up with ease when Carlos needed communication to be more visual than audio.

"If you're finished, there's a man here who wants us to lock up," she nodded in the direction of the hallway. 

Carlos glanced behind her, switching the stack of their hands to tell her there was a black smog spilling into the room. "I'd like to grab a sample of that, first." 

"Don't bother," she told then, fetching a corked test tube from her coat pocket. "It's actually very -- well, not tactile, but sort of emotive? It feels like despair, if that makes sense, and it doesn't, which is why I figured it would be something one could bottle up, because that doesn't make sense either."

"I'll put it in Drawer 6, the one behind me." The shorter of the two took the strange bottle (it was hissing now) and stood on tip-toe to lock it up, pressing the Braille tape down a little. Three days and it was already peeling. Probably something native to Night Vale would work better, they just needed to run some tests. "Um, I can take it down tomorrow if you want to label it--"

"No, I can actually just feel the despair through the glass."

Carlos looked down at their fingers. A light smudging, almost indigo. Nothing on their colleague's fingers. They discussed this in one-handed whispers, taking their canes and stepping into the hallway fog.

A light, cotton-y feeling brushed lightly against Carlos's shoulder, and when the nausea began to rush up their esophagus, a soft apology gripped their ear, followed by a tight pressure to their muscles that lasted until stepping into the hot moonlight.

Carlos took Sophia's hand, pressing it to their ear. "Do you feel someth--"

"Sorry!" she gasped. "It says 'sorry,' there's an indention--"

Baffled and disturbed beyond belief, Carlos touched the outside of their ear, rubbing the marking again. It didn't hurt -- it was terrifying, but the texture was soothing. Running their fingers over it a few times and smiling, Carlos shrugged it off. "It's okay, we'll take a better look at it tomorrow. Let's just go home."

The sidewalk was capped with a dome of innumerable stars, some that Carlos suspected should not be visible for innumerable yeas and constellations that should not have happened. 

"You're already calling it home?" the biochemist laughed, her cane sweeping over the weeds spilling out of sidewalk cracks, the flowers that bloomed with candy scents bordering the concrete.

With a sigh, Carlos took her hands and admitted, "I don't feel like we can leave." Then, voicing, "I think I can understand your speech now, but tactile sign feels better right now."

"No problem."


	2. sim-com ventriloquism and acidic saliva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The corny little meeting.

2 A.M. introduced itself with a ringing phone and an interrupted dream about Denny's new pizza deal.

Carlos threw their hand over the phone, pulling the cord beneath their sheets. A chipper, pre-recorded voice wished them a pleasant day and that the Night Vale Day's Inn Wake-Up Service was not responsible for personal injury, impersonal injury, or lost personal belongings.

The team hadn't seen a Day's Inn since they arrived in Night Vale, but Carlos shrugged it off and rolled over. A few other scientists were scattered in odd, twisted positions around the large bed, though none seemed to have been shaken by the call.

Grabbing their cane from between the nightstand and the bed, Carlos stood, grabbing their folded lab coat and shaking it over their shoulders. The off-white garment was the only weighted piece of clothing the individual owned, and the deep pockets held so many different fidgets and stim toys. 

Quietly, so as not to wake anyone, Carlos stepped out. Their ground level room opened to a view of the street, empty but for the occasional windowless van and inhuman silhouette. 

It was terrifying to most of the group. 

Carlos was used to the world not making sense. It was a little refreshing to not be the only one confused by everything going on around them.

They stepped out into the parking lot, fiddling with stress ball in their pocket. The night froze their bones. Weather forecasts in this town were useless. Poetry rather than calculations.

A bark came from the sidewalk, and they dropped the ball to cover their ears. It bounced a few feet, and a scolding tone rang out behind the padding footfalls. 

Carlos hummed, eyes shut tight. 

Vibrations rumbled in conjunction with muffled clapping. One eye peeled open to take in a worried face, gesturing hurriedly in a way Carlos recognized, a memory of a humanoid interpreter with the wings of a bat. 

This person's arms and hands were fairly human. 

Taking his hands away from his ears, a panicked voice became clearer. 

"I am so sorry! Are you okay? Barnaby is a little over-excited, but I think your toy is okay. The crust comes off with baby powder, but be careful, it's usually acidic--"

"Hello, how are you?" Carlos blurted, defaulting to the one script their brain could muster. They looked down to lock eyes with a plump terrier, drooling onto their stress ball. "Oh. I have another, you can keep that one."

"Sorry, what?"

Carlos looked up again. "I said, you can keep that ball."

"I can't see your-- let's move into the light." 

Hands moving in the dark punctuated every word, and the scientist found themselves leaning against the wall of the building, a dim incandescent bulb glowing by one of the doors.

"That's better," the person said, and Carlos realized the words didn't come from their mouth. "Now, what did you say?"

"Uh, your dog can have that ball, I have another one."

"Oh, I see!"

That sign was the same one Carlos knew, and the person's lips were shut in a smile when the voice came out. It was a strange time for sim-com ventriloquism, but Carlos wasn't really one to argue quirks.

"You're one of the scientists visiting, aren't you? What's your name? Oh, and your pronouns, if you don't mind? Sorry, am I asking too many questi--OW!"

The exclamation came from the person's mouth this time, the vowel somewhat fuller than the rest. They held their elbow, looking back to the dusty red brick of the hotel.

They giggled a bit, looking at Carlos through (slightly moist) dark brown eyes. 

"I ask too many questions, too. It's a scientist's job."

"Well, Mr. Scientist, I will have you know that it is also a journalist's job."

"Dr. Scienti-- Carlos, my name is Carlos."

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Carlos Scientist. I'm Mx. Cecil Palmer," the taller, stocky individual pushed back a strand of black hair that was falling from the bun tied high on their head, "pronouns cie, cies, cieself. And before you ask, yes, it does matter what pronouns you use for someone who can't hear them."

The lightbulb above Carlos's head flickered a bit, and they doubled over laughing. 

"What's wrong?" Cie touched Carlos's shoulder, twisting cies neck around (to lipread, the scientist realized now) and seeming a little frustrated.

All they could do was point to the light bulb mid-wheeze. 

"And... at the same time-- and you're deaf, and I just realized-- and the light bulb--" they cut off in silent laughter now, their cane clattering to the ground and their knees following suit.

Barnaby sniffed at their cheek, giving it a curious lick.

It burned a little.

Carlos glanced up to Cecil with a crooked smile, which cie found difficult to stay frustrated with.

The journalist offered a hand, pulling Carlos up along with their cane. Carlos sheepily explained their amusement, surprised when Cecil scoffed and chuckled along with them. 

"The sun's going to come up soon," Cecil noted, looking up to the pitch-black sky. "I have to take Barnaby home, he's very sensitive to light. I'll see you around."

Carlos could swear Cecil winked just before cie turned to leave.


	3. radioactivity and radio activity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos goes to check out some readings at the Night Vale Community Radio Station and plays with Barnaby while Cecil plays with their heart, they assume.

The four on-duty scientists arrived to their lab that morning, and turning the lights on, immediately abandoned all plans for their intended path of research. Mostly because all the bacteria had broken out of the test tubes and petri dishes, and the room was overgrown with dark green vines. A few violins were scattered around the tables. Echoing from every corner of the room was some kind of ballad, but none of them could place it.

James insisted it was from Kingdom Hearts while Wolfgang told everyone the song was by his namesake.

 

Carlos thought it sounded more like rap, but decided to stay out of the conversation. And out of the lab, in general.

 

They picked their bag back up, pushing through the softer parts of the (apparently sentient) plant life to grab a few basic tools out of the experimental drawer. It was mostly full of Ghostbusters-esque devices, a few orange thumb tacks, and dinosaur bandages. Carlos wasn't sure exactly what they'd shoved into their bag, but figured they would find some use for whatever it was. Sophia was already hacking her way through the thorny parts of the vines, collecting samples as needed. The other two were still arguing about the music, too engrossed in the debate to acknowledge the roses blooming near their ears as the thick ropes of plant life slung itself over their shoulders.

 

"Everyone, I'm leaving," Carlos announced, waiting for some recognition from everyone before continuing, "I'm going to go check out the town a little more. Text me if you need me."

 

James and Wolfgang nodded and waved at them dismissively before diving back into the argument. Sophia just smiled and wished them luck.

 

Sighing, they stepped out into the dry desert air. While their hip still ached, the heat did help some, and today was a good enough day that Carlos was comfortable not using their cane. A folded up travel cane was stuffed into their backpack just in case, and they couldn't run a marathon, but the steps came easy and their knees didn't crack if they bent to tie their shoes. A pretty frequent occurrence, actually, since the tarantula population was well-known for pranks, but not pranking creativity. It mostly involved untying shoes or tying them to other things.

Eyes down, the scientist pulled out one of the heavy devices from their satchel. In hindsight, less bags would have worked, but the weight was comforting. Pushing their hair from their face, they looked down at the dusty hunk of metal. Shells from cockroach eggs were smeared across the inside of the plastic, obscuring the numbers on the dial. One of an ex-teammate's inventions; it was supposed to measure radioactivity, but it was constantly giving high readings since they had entered Night Vale, and been stuffed in the junk drawer with the rest of their dreams.

Shaking it out a little, Carlos pressed a few of the switches along the back. It was reading fairly low for this area.

A few cars passed here and there, though Night Vale was made mostly of pedestrians. Fortunately, most of them avoided the scientist's gaze, or hissed at them. They kept their eyes down and stumbled slowly down the sidewalk, watching the dial.

Every few meters, it creaked towards the higher end, then began to spin rapidly before landing -- pointing? Off to a mid-range. Carlos followed its motion to a spacious parking lot in front of a bland, sand-brown building with a huge radio tower peaking from behind it. Though not packed, there were a great deal of cars parked by the building. The device was beeping now, and a bulb Carlos had not seen before was glowing a dull mauve color.

Dropping the device into a deep coat pocket, they rushed through the sharp pains in their hip to get to the front door. Plain wood, but opening it led to some kind of cave entry, the glass automatic doors within refusing to open. Something dripped onto Carlos's sleeve. 

They banged on the glass door until it groaned open, making their ears sting.

The beeping was growing higher and higher in pitch, and a few people were looking at them now. Sweating a little, their throat closed.

One young woman put a hand on their shoulder, and it burned but _they did not flinch._ "Hey! You're one of the new people in town-- are you here for an interview or something?"

Carlos opened their mouth, but only managed a wheeze. They kept their eyes on their hands.

"Mx. Palmer should be cutting to the weather in a few minutes, but I can let cie know you're here."

Nodding, Carlos sighed with relief when the hand came off their shoulder. The woman dashed out of sight and back again with an eerily wide smile. She led them through a few halls, most of which smelled like chalk and Old Spice, which was almost as dizzying as the labyrinth of the building. Carlos found themselves being shoved into a wide studio with cat posters covering the walls. The door slammed behind them, and they looked at the stocky figure seated at a messy desk. Cies hair was down over cies shoulders, hands forming words Carlos both recognized and did not.

"And now, my dear listeners," cies eyelids sank in a quiet exhaustion, a small smile playing over cies face, "I take you to... the weather."

Cecil took the clunky headphones off, and Carlos could hear that familiar ballad playing through the earpieces.

"It's nice to see you, Dr. Scientist!" Cecil's voice dropped from the sonorous and clear quality to a soft fog, the dull roar of vowels overshadowing cies consonants. 

"Actually, it's-- or, no, but you can just call me Carlos," they stammered, unsure of when their voice returned to full function.

"Oh," a bit of red pulled at cies cheeks, "Okay. _Carlos_." It came out more like _Cahh-ose_ , and took the scientist down into this sleepy lull the journalist was in. "My intern said you were here for an interview -- I don't have a lot of time, but we can squeeze something in if you like."

"I am not here for that," they said, fumbling around with their coat pocket again to yank out the radioactivity meter. "I came because this building is dangerous, and you all need to leave immediately."

The radio host stared for a few tense seconds, then laughed -- it was a throaty sound, and played against Carlos's ears as if pulling them upward. "That's-- that's very funny, Dr. Sci-- Carlos. I have a show to do, though, and then a lot of preparation for the next. Paperwork. I suppose, being a scientist, you know how that is?"

"You all need to leave immediately."

The beeping was becoming higher now, and from beneath the desk, a whine came out. On stubby legs, a shaggy white dog in a dark orange vest and harness wobbled out. A few carefully-stitched patches read "service dog" and "ask to pet." Barnaby bit at one of the folds of Carlos's pant leg, pulling back with all his might.

Gasping and apologizing profusely by both hand and mouth, Cecil flung himself forward to pull the dog away, though the saliva was already eating through the denim material and the smell of burnt rubber filled the booth quickly. The scientist dropped the device and pressed their hands to their eyes, rocking slightly, humming in tune to the beeping. Their head was spinning. They could vaguely make out the sensation of something stepping into their lap, lapping at their hands.

It didn't burn, nor did the hands against their back, rubbing gently.

They dropped their own hands to the dog's head, stroking softly, vaguely aware that the baritone was filling the room again, overpowering the rubber stench.

"Good night, Night Vale. Good night."

A few moments of silence for good measure, then a few clicks across a panel and a thumbs up to someone behind the glass. 

The chair swiveled back to face Carlos.

Cecil's radio-calm switched back to concern, cies voice somewhere between the clear voice for the masses and the soft voice for the room. "Are you okay?"

Unable to locate their voice, the scientist just nodded, but interrupted this gesture to shrug, expression more pained than their knees. Reaching into their bag, they pulled out the steel-gray cane, unfolding it and letting it click into place. They stood, resting the cane against the wall to sign, "I need to go home."

Shaking their head slowly, the mouths on Cecil's palms opened to voice, "I don't understand your dialect."

Fumbling with their phone (4 new messages, no notifications), the shorter of the two typed out "home" to show the journalist, who smiled and offered to walk them to the door.

 

 

 

 


End file.
